It seemed that time and space were spinning by her in fast motion as she scrambled down the incline of sandy quartz, shoving aside the stubborn ferns that clung in places to the rocky ledges. Dipping the crock pot, she filled it to the brim. Hurry, she must hurry. The crock was intolerably heavy. Would it be too late for the poultice to work? Delila would have known. She stumbled again, catching herself. Damn, some of the water spilled!
With labored breathing she began to bathe Brant. First his arms, compressing the cool, wet rag at his wrists and inside his elbows. Her own breathing came easier, and she sponged the chest that seemed incredibly broad. The mat of fine brown hair seemed to entwine about her fingers, holding her. Next, Brant's face―his temples where the leather colored hair lay in sweat-dampened curls.
Anne paused, looking at the rough-hewn face. She had never considered Brant particularly goodlooking. Not like Colin. If anything, the reverse. With the hideous tattoo markings on the squared-off chin―the hawk-like nose that had none of Colin's patrician lines―and the skin that was tanned by the sun, betraying the fact he was a common man, a backwoodsman, rather than a man of the aristocracy.
Yet, why had she never noticed the way the long lashes lay like feathers of a fan against the high-ridged cheekbones? And the sensuous lower lip, held in check by the firmer, leaner one above. Even the flaring nostrils bespoke of sensitivity. Had her immediate dislike of the man permanently blinded her to his finer points?
Her finger hesitantly reached out and brushed along the tattooed chin, feeling the skin's texture. Hard, rough like a brick. Then, with even greater hesitancy, her hands moved to the buttons of Brant's pants. Should she sponge off his lower half? Dear Lord, her female delicacy had disappeared that first night Otto had slobbered like a baby over her body. Why hesitate now?
Her fingers moved swiftly and firmly over the remaining buttons. The pants' opening parted to free the bold shaft. Unable to restrain herself, her fingers reached wonderingly toward it, then jerked back in fright at Brant's chuckle.
Anne cringed with mortification. She could not meet the dark eyes that she knew must mock her. But his raspy voice was rueful. "You would finally pick a time like this to fool around, Annie―when I can't do a damned thing about it."
XXI
Reluctantly Anne lifted her gaze to meet the heavy-lidded eyes, only to feel aflame of scarlet flash over her skin under Brant's close scrutiny. "The fever," she faltered. "You needed to be sponged off ...I was going to bathe you."
"Oh?" he asked with a weak smile, as at last he closed his eyes, releasing her from their imprisoning gaze. "Was that what you had in mind?"
No proper retort came to her, and she was glad he seemed to have drifted off again into a semiconscious sleep. She looked helplessly at his exposed organ thrusting through the parting of the pants. Coward, she scolded herself, as she hastily pulled the buffalo hide up over his nudity.
With resolution she turned her attention toward the onion poultice simmering in the fireplace. Using the damp rag, she lifted the spider skillet by its long handle, removing it from the hot coals to cool. When she lifted the lid, the reeking odor of the onions filled the room. And with the odor came a sudden nausea. Anne clamped the back of her hand across her mouth, stifling the stench, while she inhaled her own skin's scent. But even that did not seem to help, as her stomach churned alarmingly.
She hurried from the cabin. Closing the heavy door behind her, she leaned against it and inhaled in great gasps the sweet air. What had overcome her? Even the overwhelming odors of freshly butchered pork or rank cabbage or recently singed chicken had never unsettled her. Perhaps her nerves were telling on her after all these months.
Anne forced herself to reenter the cabin, but left open the door so that the crisp autumn air could permeate the room. Strips of cloth for fresh bandages would be needed, and she crossed to the large, iron sea chest at the foot of Brant's bed. The unlocked lid lifted easily, releasing the musty odor of things long unused.
Anne's gaze ran over the ruffled shirt, a finely made coat of dark blue broadcloth, the red silk cravat―clothing she hardly expected a man like Brant to wear. Even more unusual was the worn book tucked into one comer. She picked it up. "The Pilot" she read, by James Fenimore Cooper. Gently she lifted the cover. "Never forget your heritage ... Father," was inscribed on the flyleaf.
Feeling as if she were trespassing, Anne let the cover drop closed and rummaged deeper through the clothing for coarser cloth to bind the wounds. It was then that her hands brushed over the delicate satin. Unable to resist herself, she drew the material forward. A white satin wedding dress. Mechlin lace sleeves and seed pearls set it off―one of the loveliest gowns she had ever seen. There were other fashionable creations at the bottom of the trunk, but none held her attention as did the wedding dress―and the dried, withered bouquet of daisies and baby's breath.
Half lost in reflection on this revelation of Brant's past, Anne finally found a cotton camisole that would serve for bandage strips, and firmly closed the trunk and its secrets.
And yet, Brant remained more of a mystery than ever to her.
The onion poultice had cooled, and she began to make the plaster. When it was ready, she carried the offensive onion-soaked cloth, along with Brant's knife, over to the bed. His breathing seemed easier, steadier. But he did not awaken as she sat down beside him. Gingerly she cut away the blood-caked strips of cloth from about his shoulder. More than once she had to jerk a strip that clung to the encrusted wound, and she would wince when Brant moaned in his sleep. The puckered flesh around the wound was an unsightly red; yet, from what little she knew, gangrene did not appear to have set in, for there were, no radial streaks.
She lay the hot plaster over the laceration, and Brant's eyes flew open. He stared at her unseeingly for a second before his lids dropped once more. Then came the most difficult part, rebandaging the wound. Brant's large, rock-solid body was almost impossible to move, but at last the bandages were secured about the inflamed shoulder.
Wearily, she began to clean up the mess. One of the last things she did was to prepare coffee, setting the battered pot over the hot coals; then she collapsed on the narrow space of bed next to Brant's sprawled form, not caring at that point how improper her action was. After all, she thought tiredly, a wry smile curving her lips, was she not his wife?
When Anne next awoke it was not quite dark. The pungent smell of coffee filled the room. Beside her, Brant lay on his stomach in a deep, restorative sleep. One sinewy arm was thrown across her, and she tentatively touched the skin, finding it cool. With as little movement as possible, she disengaged herself from his constraining limbs.
She poured the steaming coffee into a cup with a broken handle, and took it back to Brant. But when she gently shook his good shoulder, he sprang up to a sitting position, as if prepared to do battle with the enemy. His gaze fell on her, and he made a grin that was more of a grimace, as he ran his hand through his rumpled hair.
"You stayed," he said, taking the cup she handed him.
"Aye―I said I would."
"Why?"
"I thought I explained it all to you." She turned back toward the fireplace. "That I owe you at least this much, and―"
"That's a crock full of shit, Anne."
She fumbled for another cup. "I told you," she mumbled.
"Out here time's too short―and life's too dangerous―for the games your kind play."
Shaking, Anne poured the coffee. "And just what are my kind, Mr. Powers? The kind that won't survive, that'll age before their time? Well, let me tell you something. Your kind bore me! You can't bear to see anyone else enjoy life because you don't know how to! And that's another thing―" Anne whirled on Brant only to find him already asleep, the cup balanced perilously on his flat stomach.
The anger went out of her, and she crossed to him, taking his cup and setting it aside with her own. "And that's another thing," she said softly to the sleeping man who looked more like a little boy pl
aying Indian. "In spite of everything, you're right. And if I can't be that honest with myself, then I'm still the little girl Delila always called me."
With that Anne curled up beside the frontiersman and went to sleep.
This time when Anne awoke, Brant was gone. At first she was frightened, thinking he had left her there alone to make her way back to civilization as best she could. But the sight of his rifle and pistol told her he had not gone far, only taking with him the knife he always carried.
Another day had dawned, and the September sun was a bright lemon yellow. All thought of Brant left as the desire for a bath grew in Anne, and she moved eagerly in the direction of the rock-bottomed pool she had glimpsed the day before. However, Brant had had the same idea, and he stood before her now, knee-deep in the crystal clear water, rubbing sand abrasively on his arms.
For one long moment Anne stood at the crest of the hill, paralyzed by the beauty of the man. His broad chest tapered to slim hips and long, well-formed legs. The entire body was sinewed with muscles, and despite its leanness its perfect symmetry bespoke its excellent physical condition. Anne remained rooted in fascination and did not blush this time as Brant, sensing her presence, turned slowly to face her.
If she thought Brant would make it any easier on her, he did not. He did nothing―only watched her and waited. At last all her pride and reserve were put aside, and she moved toward him, her fingers working carefully at the buttons of her shirt. At the water's edge her pants dropped to her feet, and she stepped out of them. The water was shockingly cold as she waded in, but she continued until she stood before him, thigh-deep in water and as naked as he.
"I've finished playing games, Brant. I want you. What I'm doing may be wrong―but I think to continue to lie to myself is even more wrong." She held up her arms to him.
The brown eyes watched her through narrowed lids, studied her, as if searching in the gray depths of her eyes for the truth. And Anne was suddenly afraid he would turn away―reject her. But, as if satisfied with what he read in her face, he took her in his arms. Yet before his mouth could close over hers, she drew her head back so that she could see the gold flecks reflected in his eyes by the water.
"But I want you to know now―I don't love you, Brant. My love has been―and always will be―for the man that has held my heart since I was a child."
"I can wait," he said.
"Then you'll wait forever."
Brant pulled her back into the safekeeping of his arms. There was only the gentle rippling of the water to tell of their coming together. There were no acrobatics, no twisted maneuverings. Only the inevitable, unhurried coupling. For Anne there was no holding back, nor any sense of violation. She wanted Brant and knew he wanted her. And there was something else―a sense of fulfillment―that pervaded her as their union came to a climax in a rainbow of explosive passion. A sense of fulfillment that continued long after Brant, favoring his wounded shoulder, carried her from the pool's edge and laid her down on the warm ledge that protruded over the deepest part of the water.
Anne stirred at last from her contentment to watch the incredibly beautiful butterfly that settled in the hollow of her outstretched arm. "It's a Monarch," Brant said softly so as not to disturb it. "They migrate from Canada each year about this time."
She looked up quickly at Brant, surprised at his knowledge. But she was reluctant to ask him any questions, to know more of him than she already did. That way it would be easier when the time came to part.
She stretched, feeling no embarrassment now at her nudity. "I'm hungry."
Brant watched her, marveling silently at the ripe, faintly-veined globes that invited a man to cup one in each hand, the narrow waist that both of his hands could span, and the long, golden-tanned limbs that came together in the soft thatch of hair the color of pale fire. Yet she had little of Celia's voluptuous charms. What was it about her that attracted him so―above all other women?
Perhaps it was her resemblance to Laura. They both had the same refined, haughty bone structure to their lovely faces, the same regal bearing, the same delicate build. But there the similarity ended. For Anne had a stronger nature, had succeeded in surviving in Texas where Laura had not. And yet, Anne, like Laura, had made all too clear her low opinion of him.
Now that his head lay next to hers, he could smell the clean, sweet, mossy smell of her hair, and it was all he could do not to take her in his arms and make love to her again.
"I don't have an apple to tempt you with," he said, rising and pulling her to her feet with him. "But would you settle for some persimmons for your hunger? They should be ripe by now."
"After living with the Comanches, you can't imagine how delicious even the simplest foods are."
"Yes," he said, "I can." He held out his hand, and Anne laid her hand in his. The two of them, as innocently naked as the first two of God's creations, climbed the rocky incline and walked along a grass-worn path that led past the cabin and over several sparsely wooded hills. At their approach a jackrabbit scurried under a clump of juniper shrubs, and an angus bull bellowed his protest before ambling away. Ahead of them a dragonfly hovered, as if guiding them.
Brant nodded toward the flying insect. "Our friend has something he wants you to see."
Anne looked at Brant questioningly but let him lead her along a rock-strewn trail that wound to the top of the next hill. At its crest Brant paused, and it was then she saw in the meadow before her a single, live oak tree, spreading its branches like some giant mythological bird to a diameter of more than three hundred feet. It was the largest tree she had ever seen, and she stood gaping at it in awe.
"I've only seen one other like it," Brant said, leading her closer, so that the two of them stood in the cool dimness beneath the sheltering branches. "Near Gonzales, Sam Houston proclaimed Texas a Republic beneath a tree like this one."
Anne's eyes were wide and shining. "There's a tree almost this large in Bridgetown―near the Queen's House. They say the baobab tree is over one thousand years old. I used to play in its branches as a child. It was my enchanted tree. Anything could happen there."
She released Brant's hand and knelt on the ground, running her fingers in the short, crisp grass before looking up at the towering, umbrella-like branches. There was an aura of safety there. Security.
Brant came to sit beside her, and she sank back in the grass, stretching like a feline before crossing her arms behind her head. "This is where I'd come, Brant. Whenever I wanted to escape from the world, this is where I'd run to."
Brant chewed on a blade of grass without looking at the woman stretched out beside him. His eyes narrowed on the distant hills, and he said in a low voice, "I guess that's about what I did. Hid out here like a wild thing. Until I met Rafael again on a trip into San Antonio. Then he reminded me that there was a civilization out there. Still, this place draws me back."
Then, as though he had revealed too much, he said, smiling, "I thought you said you were hungry."
His smile never failed to amaze Anne―and please her―because he smiled so rarely, and when he did it was usually a cynical or bitter smile. "I'd almost forgotten!" She jumped to her feet, brushing the grass and loose dirt from her bare bottom. "Lead on, My Great Provider."
Brant drew his gaze away from the rose-tipped breasts that moved so seductively with her childlike antics. "You can make a man forget his good intentions, Anne Maren," he said huskily.
Anne stuck out her tongue at him. "I didn't know you had any!" Then she grinned. "Now show me your forbidden fruit."
Brant cocked one brow wickedly, and Anne began to giggle, then made her expression stern. "You know what I mean, Brant Powers."
They were like two children, searching among the tangled bushes and vines that cloaked the various trees until they found their persimmon tree. Beads of perspiration dotted Anne's upper lip and coursed down the matted hair of Brant's chest as they labored under the sun collecting the ripe fruit from where it had fallen on the ground. They deposi
ted the persimmons in two baskets that Anne quickly wove from grass and twigs.
"Not all my Kwahadi training was wasted," she told Brant with an impish grin, proudly displaying her basketry.
"Every woman who hopes to marry should take the Kwahadi Wife Course," he said with a straight face, and Anne groaned with laughter.
When their baskets were full, they once more sought out the cool shelter of their liveoak. Sinking to the grassy carpet, they sorted out their spoils. "Open your mouth," she said and fed him several persimmons before he could pull away, mouth full. The black juice overflowed his lips and stained his chin as he sought to swallow the fruit.
"Laugh, will you?" Brant caught Anne's fingers between his teeth with a playful nip.
"Let go!" she squealed in mock pain.
"Now it's your turn." And he shoved her backwards on the grass, forcing the fruit between her clamped lips.
Then, with his body half covering hers, a sudden silence overtook the two. Their laughter faded. Their eyes searched each other's faces, recording the naked desire to be found there. Anne's lips opened to receive Brant's kiss, and the tart juices in their mouths mingled on their tongues.
For the first time her passion matched his, and she could hardly stand the seconds of waiting until he took her. There were no preliminaries, no whispered words of passion. None were needed as their lovemaking mounted to a frenzied act of violence ...Brant sinking his teeth into the soft hollow of her neck―and Anne responding by raking crimson trenches down his muscled, sweat-slippery back with her fingernails.
But when she begged for release, Brant's tempo changed. There, beneath the spreading oak tree, he made love to her, slowly, leisurely. And he taught her. Showed her. There was more to what she had experienced than the simple act of copulation. There was the act of giving pleasure, of giving oneself, and lastly of giving love.
Bonds, Parris Afton Page 16
